


After

by soitgoes2142



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, References to Depression, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:11:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soitgoes2142/pseuds/soitgoes2142
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An important morning after, as witnessed by Maglor Feanorion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I. The Morning After

Maglor walked with a spring in his step down the drafty Himring hallway, a pile of papers clutched in his arms, as he made his to his brother's suite of rooms. The papers consisted of drawings of his new fortress, lists of supplies and the contents of his treasury, designs for outposts and guard towers soon to be erected. Maedhros had erected his own castle in an incredibly short time. He had proved innovative and efficient in his employment of new defense measures. Decades in a dungeon in Angband must give one a different understanding of safety, security, strength. While Maglor was proud of the structure rising in what the people were already calling Maglor's Gap, he still wanted his brother's advice.

At least, that was Maglor's official reason for visiting Maedhros. One always had to have a narrative, a melody to sing out loud, but there was always a counterpoint, a harmony. He did have another motive. Even though years had passed since Maedhros was rescued from Angband, Maglor worried about him. When they had all set off for the North, to survey the lands they had claimed and build their fortresses, Maedhros was still been too gaunt and fragile for Maglor's liking. Maedhros had mastered eating and dressing himself one handed, but could not yet braid his own hair or write legibly. Maglor was often up at odd hours of the night, when inspiration struck him and he had to write down a verse or work out a melody. Then, sometimes, he would hear his brother screaming. He would find Maedhros in the throes of nightmares, dark visions where his torturers returned. Maglor would wake him, if Fingon didn’t beat him to it. On the shores of Lake Mithrim, Fingon had been a constant at Maedhros' side as he trained with sword and knife, trying to wield them in his off hand. Fingon swore that Maedhros would become as deadly with his left as he had been with his right. Maglor had wondered (rather cynically, but that was his way) whether that was Fingon's cast-iron optimism or just a means to stave off deep-seated guilt about Maedhros' maiming. Back then, Maglor had not had much hope. 

Now, he did. Maglor had arrived at Maedhros' impressive fortress the night before. Himring was still under construction yet rose formidably on the hilltop, a buttress against the frozen North. His brother greeted him with a ready smile, open arms, and a firm embrace. Maedhros pulled Maglor to him tight enough that Maglor could feel the tone and muscle that had returned to his body. The scars that rippled as he grinned had not disappeared, though. They never would. 

Maglor would have to stop picturing his brother's face as it had been. His strong cheekbones dotted with freckles, their father's chiseled nose, it was all still there. Maglor would have to learn to not feel shame and regret when he looked at the silvery web of scars that twisted his brother's face. 

Fingon certainly paid no mind to the scars. He had cared for Maedhros throughout his convalescence, alongside Maglor and his brothers, despite objections from several quarters. Fingon never once flinched away from Maedhros' severed stump, or the brands on his body, or the burns in odd places. Maglor had asked him once how he hid the horror he felt when he saw how mutilated Maedhros had become. Maglor admired Fingon's ability to disguise every twinge of disgust, every impulse towards pity. Maedhros hated to see those emotions flash across their faces. "All I feel when I see him is relief," Fingon had said simply. "When I found him on the cliff face it was so much worse. Not just his body--though I feared it would give out before we reached Mithrim, feared I would break him just by touching him. It was in his eyes." Fingon smiled sadly and squeezed Maglor's shoulder. "The light is returning to them. I see it growing stronger every day. There is hope for Maitimo yet."

These memories had filled Maglor's mind as he embraced Fingon at the gates of Himring, surprised to see him but not unpleasantly so. Maedhros had not mentioned that Fingon's visit would be overlapping with Maglor's in his letters. But then again, perhaps the visit had been a surprise. Fingon was not known for thinking ahead. And Maedhros had no reason lie to Maglor, even by omission. 

At dinner that night, Maedhros and Fingon laughed easily together as Maglor looked on, amused. The old friends fell into a familiar pattern that Maglor remembered from their youth in Valinor and in a way, it amazed him. They were both so changed--in appearance, in bearing, in status. Suffering was graven upon them. The two of them, Maglor's brother's, Maglor's cousins, Maglor himself: they were all different people now. It was a relief to think there might be something left of their old selves, something that had not been burnt or frozen away. 

So in the morning when Maglor reached the door to Maedhros' rooms, and heard Fingon's voice from within, he was not surprised. He was about to enter himself, had even nudged the door open with his hip, when his stack of papers toppled over and scattered across the floor. Cursing softly, Maglor fell to his knees and began to collect the sheets of parchment, the maps and lists and floor plans. The door was cracked open, and Maglor glanced up to see if his brother was coming to his aid. When he did, his eyes lit on the scene inside.

Maedhros was sitting in his desk chair, his back to the door, watching Fingon contentedly. His chest was bare, which Maglor found odd in chilly Himring, even in the comfort of his own bedroom. The whip marks on his back were clearly visible to Maglor. They stood out stark and silver. 

Fingon was crisscrossing the room, evidently searching for something as he picked up books and baubles, dropping to his knees to look under the bed and then returning to search Maedhros' desk, making a racket. Fingon paused in his pacing in front of Maedhros and fiddled with shirt. The buttons were in the wrong holes, as if the garment had been hastily put on. Fingon began unbuttoning agitatedly. "Come here, Finno," said Maedhros softly, and Fingon assented, dropping his hands and letting his friend do up the buttons correctly. "Your brother should be here shortly. I need to find it and make myself scarce." "Don't worry about Macalaure," soothed Maedhros. "He wanted to meet this morning, but I'm sure he is exhausted from his journey and won't turn up until later. We'll find it by then." Fingon sighed. "I know, but I leave tomorrow." He smiled suddenly, fondly, down at Maedhros, who had finished with his buttons. "For once I'm taller than you." Fingon smoothed a hand through Maedhros' red hair until it came to rest against his cheek. The warmness of their friendship was well known to Maglor, but he was still thrown by the intimacy of such an act. 

And when Maedhros put a hand on Fingon's waist to pull him closer, when Maedhros drew Fingon down and kissed him on the lips, Maglor was simply stunned. 

Maglor dropped the small pile of papers he had managed to collect from the floor. He sat back against the outer wall, his mind whirling with the implications of all he had just seen. He closed his eyes as days and months, years and decades and centuries worth of memories flashed before him. Odd, charged moments in the close friendship between his brother and Fingon. Maedhros' reluctance to discuss matters of the heart when they were young. The argument on the beach at Losgar. The devotion with which Fingon had stood by Maedhros' side while he healed. The unbelievable capacity for forgiveness that had marked the revitalization of their friendship. 

Maglor was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he lost the thread of the conversation within the room, until he heard Fingon exclaim "Aha!" He must have resumed his search for the lost object. Maglor edged closer to the door so he could peer in again. Triumphantly, Fingon held aloft one of his long golden hair ribbons, which he had extricated from the sheets of Maedhros' bed. The tiny voice in Maglor's head that had been saying what he had seen couldn't mean what he thought it meant, suddenly went quiet.

"Now that I've found this I will look presentable," Fingon said happily. "You always look more than presentable," Maedhros replied. Fingon snapped his knee playfully with the hair ribbon. "I will take my leave before you start writing bad poetry, Maitimo," said Fingon, a laugh in his voice. 

Maglor had not thought this far ahead while eavesdropping. As Fingon's steps approached, he flattened himself to the wall, then remembering his papers were scattered all across the floor and scrambled to collect them. The result of his actions was that after exiting Maedhros' room and closing the door behind him, Fingon--humming happily to himself, his gaze far away--nearly tripped over Maglor.

"Oh! My apologies," Fingon cried when he stumbled over the person in his way. His eyes widened when Maglor looked up and smiled tightly at him. "Well met, cousin." "Macalaure," said Fingon cautiously, sinking to his knees beside Maglor. "Let me help you gather these up." They worked side by side for a moment, with only the shuffling of paper to break the awkward silence. Suddenly Fingon blurted out, "How much did you see?" Just as Maglor let the papers drop from his hands again and demanded "How long have you been sleeping with my brother?" 

There was another pause, but a less tense one. "I saw enough to pose the question," Maglor said pointedly. Fingon drew in a breath. "Then I will answer it. Not long. Only after his full recovery. Once he had become the Lord of Himring. Though I loved him long before that." 

Maglor nodded, digesting this. "Does anyone know?" "You. Curufin, Maitimo says. Aredhel may have put two and two together. She's clever that way. And Artanis sees everything." "Hmmm," said Maglor. Anxiously, Fingon began to twist a strand of his flyaway hair between his fingers. He continued, "Maitimo is worried about how your brothers will react, if and when they find out. It violates custom, but more than that, we both fear that the new nature of our...friendship...could call into question the legitimacy of dealings between Maitimo and my father. Especially the way Maitimo relinquished his claim to the crown." 

"But he loves you," Maglor said simply, making a statement out of a question.  
Fingon smiled in response--brilliantly, blinding. It came easily to his features, and lit them in such a way that even Maglor could see why people found Fingon beautiful. He supposed his brother thought so.

"He loves me," Fingon assented.

"Then it is a matter of when, not if, my brothers--and maybe others--find out. Nelyo does not abandon what he loves. Not willingly." Fingon bobbed his head in agreement, warmth in his eyes. They finished gathering the papers in companionable silence, then rose to their feet. Fingon handed his stack to Maglor, and said earnestly, "We can count on your support, then? Your discretion?" Maglor raised an eyebrow archly, hugging the papers to his chest. "I saw nothing here today. In fact, I don't know what you're talking about. I came to consult with my brother about defensive architecture, and that's what I plan to do." "Very good," said Fingon, rewarding Maglor with another bright grin. "I wish you the best of luck." 

Maglor watched Fingon walk away down the corridor, his hands busy about his head. Using the ribbon he had recovered from Maedhros' sheets, and another he pulled from a pocket, Fingon was quickly taming his unruly curls, humming all the while. Maglor shook his head even as he smiled. Fingon the Valiant, the dauntless and unflappable. Son of Fingolfin. High Prince of the Noldor. Famously the friend of Maedhros Feanorion. That title would have to be amended, in his own mind at least. The lover of Maedhros Feanorion. 

That night, after a day spent in consultation with Maedhros--truly talking about defensive architecture, he wanted more time to think before he spoke with his brother about his revelation--Maglor awoke with a song in his head. It was not an uncommon occurrence. By the light of the moon he fumbled for a quill and the journal he kept by his bedside for the express purpose of writing down lyrics or melodies he didn't want to lose. All night, the tune Fingon had hummed had run through his mind, intertwining with the whirl of notes that normally occupied Maglor's mind. Snippets of their conversation seemed to reverberate in his ears, images danced before his eyes. An intact but empty manacle. An eagle swooping over Lake Mithrim. The silvery scars on Maedhros' back. A golden hair ribbon glittering in the morning sunshine.

Maglor wrote and wrote and wrote. He had already composed one song inspired by his brother's rescue from Thangorodrim--all about the beauty of friendship, a heroic epic celebrating bravery and selflessness. That song was certainly a piece of the truth. But that was not what got Maglor out of bed hours before dawn and set his toe to tapping, his quill to spilling notes across the page. 

He needed to write a love song.


	2. After the Glorious Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor battles besides his eldest brother

II. After the Glorious Battle

Maglor and Maedhros fought best back to back, their swords swinging in tandem, black blood spattering across both their faces, their minds mingled and senses intertwined. 

For Maglor, osanwe in battle was like having eyes in the back of his head. Maedhros' blind spot and his own differed dramatically, so he could see danger coming from all directions when he tapped into his brother's mind. Without spoken word or warning, Maglor knew when his brother wanted to move forward, fall back, make a risky strike, or startle the orcs with a battle cry. Every motion could be coordinated, every impulsed twined, every sense doubled.

It was definitely not what Feanaro had envisioned when he taught his sons to practice osanwe, mind-speech, a skill some elves never used to its fullest extent. As children, even outside their father's lessons, the brothers worked to acquire this special skill. Maedhros and Maglor would sit on opposite sides of the room they shared and think as hard as they could at each other. They thought until their inner voices were hoarse. They stared at each other intently in case eye contact would help break the barrier. Skin contact helped too, father said, so they sat cross-legged and held hands, thinking furiously all the while. When Maglor first heard his brother's voice in his mind, he had been filled with such intense elation that Maedhros began to cry with joy, Maglor's emotions spilling over into his head. 

Such emotion sharing was an essential part of osanwe, both a blessing and a curse. In battle, Maglor and Maedhros could feed off of each other's adrenaline and battle fervor. Usually Maglor tapped into Maedhros' store of wild, age-old rage, feelings that originated in a dungeon and on a mountain top, beneath the lash and the branding iron. It was a part of his brother's mind that was often blocked off to him when they used osanwe in councils, over dinner. Then, osanwe was more like spoken conversation--though of course silent, secret, undetectable. When they fought the orcs, Maglor felt his brother grow fierce, even feral. He knew Maedhros sought among the masses the faces of his torturers, or their spawn, or their spawn's spawn. Maedhros' mind filled with memories of pain--torment under the whip, teeth-pulling pliers, screws and chains and fists. 

Maglor felt the anger and shame and fear as his own when their minds were one. He used those emotions to push himself further, he unleashed his voice and roared at the enemies before him. Orcs fled before Maedhros' face, scarred from torture and twisted with rage. They quavered at the sound of Maglor's battle cry, voicing his brother's anguish.

Maedhros told Maglor it helped. Letting Maglor in. Channeling those black emotions into the fighting with his brother there to make sure he didn't go too far into the foulest, most damaging recollections. The ones that sometimes pounced upon Maedhros in peacetime, when the orcs were far away, Angband as distant as Valinor. The ones that shadowed his mind, confining Maedhros to his bed for days at a time, lost in a gray haze of pain and pointlessness. When Maglor shared Maedhros' mind, he did not let that happen. 

The orcs receded before them, Maedhros' long sword and Maglor's twin blades cutting them down easily. Their troops were faring the same, and savage joy blossomed in Maglor's chest as the black tide scattered in disarray. The enemy's army was breaking, retreating. Maglor let out a wild whoop as Maedhros called for his riders to pursue the fleeing orcs. 

Maglor turned to his brother and smiled. "The leaguer of Angband stands! Our people have fought valiantly," he cried aloud, for the benefit of the nearby soldiers. Mind to mind, he spoke to Maedhros, "Have you seen our brothers?" Maglor felt the swell of anxiety in Maedhros that mirrored his own concern for their younger brothers. An omnipresent feeling after even a successful battle. "I have not. I will try to reach them mind-to-mind." Maglor nodded, maintaining their mental connection so he would know as soon as Maedhros received a response from their siblings. 

At that moment, they heard a call from beyond a nearby rise. An armored figure appeared at the crest of the hill. "Maitimo!" It called again, and Maglor knew who is was even before Fingon removed his helmet to reveal his glittering braids. Such a powerful rush of wordless emotion had flowed from Maedhros' mind--and unbidden, into Maglor's--at the sound of that voice, at the sight of Fingon's silhouette against the sky. Relief so intense it was almost painful, happiness, pride, a tidal wave of love. Fingon made his way down from the crest of the hill, smiling brilliantly, and Maedhros almost ran to meet him. Maedhros shoved his sword impatiently in its scabbard and embraced Fingon, who was murmuring, "No casualties, Maitimo, I have no casualties!" which Maglor heard because Maedhros' ears were his ears, Maedhros' arms his arms. He felt the need to do so as his own when Maedhros hugged Fingon to himself so tightly he almost lifted Fingon off his feet. Fingon laughed, and at the sound Maglor felt a pang of emptiness strike deep in his stomach, a loneliness that ached like a physical ill.

Maglor pulled back from his brother's mind abruptly. Maedhros looked up from Fingon's face long enough to glance at Maglor, his eyes apologetic. The connection went both ways, and Maedhros knew exactly how excruciating his joy had been for Maglor to feel. Maglor had not been in love, not felt the way Maedhros felt, for such a long time. 

He tried not to think of her. She was far across the sea, as she had chosen to be. But thoughts came unbidden to him, sometimes. Even on a field of battle such as this. As he watched Fingon smooth back a loose strand of his brother's hair, Maglor was overcome with memories. Long, slim fingers that flew over the flute with unparalleled skill. That full-lipped mouth he had loved to kiss. Her laugh, deeper than anyone expected when heard her speak. 

She still lived and breathed and sang. What Maglor wouldn't give to hear her voice again. He was not a widower, he told himself. He didn’t deserve sympathy or pity as such, even from himself. Yet when the memories encroached, Maglor could not deny what he felt in his stomach, in his blood, in the marrow of his bones. He had lost his wife. 

Maedhros and Fingon were approaching him. Maglor blinked furiously. He needed to focus on the present. "A glorious day! A glorious battle!" Fingon crowed. "A sound defeat for Morgoth," Maedhros agreed as Fingon embraced Maglor. Maglor held onto him for several seconds longer than he normally would have. It might help cover up Maedhros' exuberant greeting. And Maglor could only be glad that the person his brother loved so well had survived. 

Maedhros touched Maglor's mind again, tentatively. Maglor strengthened the connection, and Maedhros spoke, "Tyelko, Moryo, and Pityo are all safe, they spoke to me. Curvo has twisted his ankle but otherwise is perfectly fine." Maglor sent Maedhros a rush of gratitude for the news. They nodded at each other over Fingon's shoulder. 

"The Glorious Battle," said Maglor, testing the weight and rhythm of the words as the three of them made their way to where the Feanorian troops were regrouping. "I like the sound of that, Finno. May I borrow it?" "It's all yours, Maglor," Fingon responded promptly, though his eyes were fixed on Maedhros, who had pulled ahead, putting his long legs to good use. Fingon's gaze, lingering on Maglor's brother, was softer than it should have been in public. 

"It's all yours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My interpretation of osanwe and its use in battle is completely my own headcanon and not based on any specific source, but I think it could be an interesting twist to the elves' telepathy.


	3. After Unnumbered Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and his brothers experience the aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, or the ruin of the Union of Maedhros.

III. After Unnumbered Tears 

Abject failure. That was the mood that permeated the camp full of wounded and dispirited soldiers, the woefully depleted Feanorian troops who counted themselves lucky to have their heads on their shoulders. Literally. Sickening reports of mountains of heads built by the victorious orcs had come in with injured stragglers. It was an image Maglor couldn't shake from his mind. 

There was another image, substantiated by eyewitness accounts, that haunted Maglor. High King Fingon had fallen to a Balrog. Soldiers who had fought near him (none who had fought with him survived), now staggered into the Feanorian camp, telling of how their King's body had been trampled into the mire of his own blood. He would have been unrecognizable even to his dearest friends and kinsmen. Even Maedhros would not have been able to identify the remains, they whispered, and cut their eyes towards Maglor's tall brother.

So they were a fractured band of soldiers without a fortress to return to, without a King, and without hope that Morgoth could ever be defeated. And most worrisome to Maglor, the titular leader of the Union of Maedhros had not emerged from his tent in days. 

During the battle, Maedhros and Maglor had fought back to back, as they usually did, sharing senses and speaking mind to mind. When the traitorous Men turned on their forces, Maglor tasted Maedhros' rage and panic, just as Maedhros felt Maglor's rising sense of foreboding, impending doom. They fended off the Men but lost ground, valuable time, important positions. They were cut off from the forces of Fingon and Turgon. Still, the sons of Feanor fought on. 

The foe seemed endless, implacable. A horde of orcs, bigger and stronger than they had seen before, tore up the battlefield. Doubt grew in the pit of Maglor's stomach as they were forced apart from their allies, step by step. Maglor had been about to suggest a controlled retreat when Maedhros doubled over with a gasp. With his panoramic osanwe-vision, Maglor had seen no blade or projectile strike his brother. Yet he feared the worst as he sensed the lancing pain that flooded Maedhros' mind, that spilled over into his own. "Are you hurt, Nelyo?" He asked urgently, fending off the orcs on as many sides as he could while Maedhros slumped against him. Maedhros drew in a rattling breath. "Something snapped, I don't know how to describe..." And so Maedhros stopped trying. He let what he was feeling wash fully into Maglor's mind, and Maglor almost dropped his sword. 

Maglor had a marriage bond, of course, but one thinned and depleted by time, by distance. In Maglor’s mind’s eye it had deteriorated to the width of strand of hair, though it was long, running from his core all the way across the ocean. Maedhros' marriage bond--and he was married, if one used the Sindarin definition--wrapped around him from head to toe, a cord as unbreakable as the ones crafted by the Nandor, made of a thousand tendrils intricately woven together. In an instant of excruciating pain, that bond had been ripped away. 

Maedhros and Maglor knew Fingon was dead long before his soldiers confirmed it.   
They had felt it. 

Knowing what he knew, Maglor watched his brother closely as their humbled troops made their retreat, driven from their own lands by the orcs. Maedhros did not falter in word or deed, continually the stoic commander, as their forces fled southward in search of safety. But his eyes were gaunt, his face hollow. He didn't touch his food when they halted to scarf down meager rations. He spoke in monosyllables when he was not addressing the people or issuing orders. When they pitched their tents and founded the temporary camp--hoping to draw in other survivors who had been separated from the major hosts in the chaos of battle--Maedhros disappeared.

Maglor knew his brother needed to grieve. But as the eldest brother, as the de facto leader of the House of Feanor--and perhaps even all the Noldor if none of the Nolofinwions survived--Maglor also knew his brother needed to lead. His presence was needed to restore confidence and hope in their troops. And Maedhros' brothers needed his strategic mind, his iron will, his diplomatic skills. Maglor had already clashed with Curufin over what they each considered appropriate camp defenses. Celegorm opposed the camp all together and was restless to move on. 

Maglor was reminded of Lake Mithrim, and the long years when he served as High King. It had been a dismal time in both Maglor’s personal history and in the history of the Noldor. Maedhros alone of Feanor's children seemed to possess their father's ability to make the fractious sons fall in line. Mostly, Maglor was grateful for it, though in a tiny corner of his heart he was jealous. 

So after three days of indecision and quarrels, Maglor sought out his absent brother. Usually they respected the privacy of each other's tents, but worry ate away at Maglor until he came to Maedhros' tent, hesitated for a moment, then pushed aside the heavy flap. Inside the tent all was dark and quiet, though it was the middle of the day and the camp outside was bustling with activity. Maglor almost tripped over his brother's prone form. Maedhros was curled up in his bed roll on the cold ground.

Maglor knelt down and shook his brother's shoulder gently, until Maedhros' eyes lost their unfocused stare and he groaned softly. "Nelyo," said Maglor, reverting back to the Quenya nickname from their childhood. That name was the first word he had ever spoken aside from "atya" and "amme." Maglor wasn't even sure what he was going to say next, but he called to his brother anyway. Maedhros responded, in a flat voice quite unlike his own, "Go away, Kano. I need to sleep." "No, you need to awaken!" Maglor heard the desperation in his own voice and tried to speak more evenly. "What's more, the people need to awaken. We must stay strong and united for them, show them that we will not succumb to fear and grief." 

Maedhros laughed hollowly, rolling over onto his back so that Maglor could see his fey grin. "You think I can teach them not to succumb to darkness? The darkness is all about me, Kano, I can barely breathe for it...it is worse than it has ever been, and you know how I can be leveled..." "I know," said Maglor fervently, to whom the second letter was written when his personal guard found Maedhros gripped by dark moods, his usual activities giving way to lethargy and despondence. Sometimes Maglor's favorite brother was preyed upon by foul memories, wounds that went beyond the body, wounds that not even time could heal. 

When those old wounds reopened, the first letter had always been sent to Fingon.  
He was gone now. 

Maedhros struggled to sit up, as if he had received a flesh wound. His vivid red hair was lank and unkempt. "Kano, maybe if I show you, you will understand how much you are asking of me..." He reached for Maglor's hand, intertwining their fingers as he opened his mind, letting his mental state bleed over into Maglor's head. Looking through Maedhros' eyes, it was if a grey fog had descended upon the world, as if his brother was wrapped in a cloud of numbness that dulled all sensation. There was a great weight upon his chest, no, it extended across his whole body, as if he were wearing armor that was much too heavy. It felt immensely difficult to keep his eyes open, let alone stand or speak or eat or sing. 

Maglor's mind recoiled from his brother's. Instinctively he slammed down a barrier against the osanwe, the transfer of thought and feeling that left him so immobilized. "You can't stand it for a minute," said Maedhros savagely. "I've lived with it, on and off, since I was rescued from Thangorodrim. It was a price greater than my hand." 

Maedhros pushed himself up into a sitting position, his eyes glassy. Maglor held his hand close to his chest, as if contact with Maedhros' had burned it. He did not know what to say. "Pass me my sword belt," Maedhros intoned, quietly but firmly. Maglor did so, unsure what else to do but obey his older brother. Maedhros unsheathed his dagger. "This is how I've been dragging myself out of bed since the battle," he said without inflection. Then Maedhros closed his left hand around the naked blade of the dagger, so that the metal bit into his palm. 

Maglor cried out. Maedhros made no sound. He had suffered much worse pain. Maglor lunged for the knife, trying to pry it away from his brother. It was slick with Maedhros' blood, slippery to the touch, and Maedhros clung to it. Maglor sprang to his feet and managed to wrest the dagger away from his brother, but not before Maedhros' efforts to hang onto the blade caused the sleeves of his robe to fall back. Then, Maglor could see the series of cuts encrusted with blood that climbed Maedhros' right arm above the stump of his right hand. They were all fresh. Recent. 

Maglor stood over his brother, breathing heavily, holding the knife gingerly in his hands. Maedhros, kneeling on the ground, yanked his sleeve back down. "You've been doing this to yourself," Maglor said, a statement, not a question. He was horrified. As if Maedhros didn't have enough scars already. 

Maedhros met his gaze, some spark of life returned to his eyes as the blood dripped from his hand. "Pain is the only thing that cuts through that haze, that makes me think this is real and not another torture of Morgoth's, that lets me feel anything at all! Give me back my dagger," he commanded, unabashed. When Maglor did not respond, Maedhros continued harshly, his eyes flashing. "I deserve the pain, Kano. It's only fair. It was my Union. My plan, my alliances. My influence with Fingon that led us to the slaughter." Maedhros drew a shaky breathe. Still on the floor, he hugged his knees to his chest as the words spilled out. 

Maglor watched helplessly. He ran his hands over the hilt of Maedhros' knife. He tried to wipe the blood from the blade. 

"It's all my fault. It's all my fault. They followed me, he followed me. Fingon--he trusted me, he loved me! And I repaid him with death. He's dead because of me and everything we touch--everything will turn to ash. I felt it when the Balrog killed him, they killed him, and trampled his body into the dirt, Kano, it hurt so much...you were there. You felt it. But only a shadow of his mind, through my mind, it was so much worse...I was bound to Findekano, body and mind and spirit ,and now there's nothing..."

Maglor was a musician. His life's work, his passion and his calling, had to do with the voice, the ear, the vocal chords. But he had never heard anyone make a sound like the one his brother made then. It was a terrible keening that chilled him to the bone. 

Maglor thrust the bloody dagger into his own weapons belt and knelt again beside Maedhros as his brother's shoulders shook, and his chest heaved, and then Maedhros began to weep. Maglor had not seen his brother shed such tears since the healers wrenched his shoulder back into its proper place on the shores of Lake Mithrim, when the pain was so intense it jolted him out of unconsciousness. Maglor held him, and mentally sent out the strongest message he could to his younger brothers. "We have been relying on Nelyo to save us from ourselves for too long. Now he needs us. Come." 

And they came, as soon as they were able. Celegorm, still in his riding boots. Caranthir, with his arm in a sling. Curufin, his normally inscrutable face furrowed in concern. Amrod, hastily tying back his hair, which was the same shade of red as Maedhros'. Maglor sensed them hovering outside the tent. "Come in," he told them, mind to mind. "He is...stricken by a malady of the mind. He has been doing injury to himself. We must help him as best we can." 

Amrod strode in first. Perhaps he knew best the kind of grief their brother was struggling with. He started to light candles in the tent, brightening the dark space. Celegorm came to join Maglor, holding Maedhros and speaking to him in the same soothing voice he would have used with an injured animal. Caranthir went to work on Maedhros' hand, binding the cut there, stopping the bleeding. Their brother was calming a bit, and did not protest when Maglor lifted the sleeve of his robe so that Caranthir could clean the older cuts along his arm. Maglor stood and Curufin took his place at Maedhros' side, stroking their brother's hair in a manner reminiscent of their mother. It was a rare moment when Curufin did not remind Maglor of their father. 

Maglor looked at his brothers, all together on the floor, sharing in a common crisis. "I'll be back," he said authoritatively. He exited the tent, the warm sunshine startling after the dark interior of the tent. He scrutinized the common fire pit where demoralized soldiers were congregated, until he spotted one with the insignia of Maedhros' personal guard on his tunic. He pulled him aside--a rather young elf, though taller than Maglor--and asked, "Have you been in my brother's service long?" "Ever since I came of age. My family resides, resided, in Himring." "Good," said Maglor. The young elf looked at him nervously. "Have I done something wrong?" "No. Not yet. But you must do exactly as I say now, and do so in complete confidence. You know what all my brother's weapons look like? You know where he keeps them?" "Yes," responded the guard. "Before I reached my majority I served as his squire." "You will find them, every last one, and bring them to me. Along with that, anything sharp you know your lord possesses...letter openers, and the like. If your lord asks where his weapons are, tell him to come to me. If he asks you for your weapon, you refuse. Do not give him even a pocket knife." 

"But it is my duty to do as my lord commands!" the young soldier protested, his eyes anxious. Maglor's own eyes narrowed. He could feel all his fear and anger--at his brother, at himself for not spotting the internal danger sooner, at Ulfang for his betrayal, even at Fingon for dying (or for sharing his brother’s bed, he wasn’t sure which)--bubbling inside him. He was his father's son. He had to spit the vitriol somewhere. The bile of powerful words was turning his stomach already. Maglor took a step closer to the guard so that they were uncomfortably close together.

"Your lord is a danger to himself," Maglor growled. "You will do exactly as I say, or you will find him dead upon the floor." The younger elf paled, visibly distressed. "If that happens because of your intransigence, I will hold you personally responsible for my brother's death. If such a thing comes to pass, though my brother's wounds be self-inflicted, I will weave a narrative so powerful, a song so potent, that you will go down in history as the murderer of Maedhros Feanorion. I will sing, and you shall become a sniveling servant of Morgoth. One who committed an unpardonable crime: one who turned on his lord and slew him. You will be forever an outcast and a pariah, doomed to wander alone across Beleriand. Do you understand how serious this is?" 

The young soldier nodded vigorously. "Yes, my lord Maglor. My lord Maedhros is to have no weapons, or anything sharp. Even if he asks for it, I will not grant his wish. And I will tell you if he does." "Now inform my brother's other close guards," Maglor commanded. "But not a word to anyone else." The guard, his eyes wide and fearful and obedient, almost ran away from Maglor. Maglor took a deep breath, letting his singer's lungs expand and contract until he calmed. The panic he had felt since Maedhros sliced open his hand with the dagger receded. Slightly.

When they were children, Maedhros had stopped Maglor and their brothers from eating dirt. He had bandaged their scraped knees. He had helped paste back together fractured sculptures, talked them through their broken hearts. When father was busy in the forge or in the library, when mother was consumed with another child or her own art, there was always Nelyo to fall back on. 

Maglor and his brothers had failed, once before, to repay the favor. Fingon had saved Maedhros from Morgoth in their stead. Now, the sons of Feanor would save their brother from himself.


End file.
